Logs:This Ledge is My Ledge
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| RL Date: 22 June, 2015 |
| Who: Lythronath, Neianth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A young brown dragon is curious and invasive. A slightly older bronze dragon is angry and territorial. |
| Where: Lythronath's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 24, Month 1, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: It took me forever to get around to posting this. Sorry. |
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| Lythronath's Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
It's all fresh; so fresh the carcasses are still here. The kicking beast may have been seen, or more likely heard, bleating as Lythronath hauled it home. There was one before it, also. These two were a gory session even by his standards, hearts kept pumping as long as the bronze could muster to get the best fresh spread of blood across his ledge. Now, the second beast also is silenced; now, it's working in the organs, the other liquids, the bits of flesh that have been ground to a paste between talons and stone. The ledge is a massacre, overdone as only Lythronath can overdo it, a final and solid claim meant to last as long as it possibly can. It wouldn't have been the first time Neianth noticed this particular gore-laden ledge. The weyrling brown, still so small in comparison to full-grown dragons and his brown clutchbrothers as well, circles above. Those circles collect and narrow as his elevation begins to descend, his elegance in the air much beyond anything he demonstrated on the ground as a younger one. The darkness of his underbelly, legs and wings are deep enough that, would it have been night, perhaps it would be hard to discern him from shadow. But given daylight, he is but an unclean dragon, those blacks tainted with the dried red-brown of blood he'd refused a bath for in light of better things to do. And those better things today included finding out more about this. His mind reaches first, a rippling in the darkness like the result of a single droplet of water hitting a perfectly still pool. The ripples quicken into choppiness and color into reds, blood reds- a reflection of the gore of Lythronath's making. Audibly, a rumbling preceeds an outright roar as the brown's wingtip skims the ledge before he ascends again. Permission-seeking. Lythronath is almost meditative (for Lythronath) in his work. It's all very precise, now that the fun and games of the initial bleedings are over. There is no patterning to it, and yet, when a place is chosen, it's very deliberate. He's filling a pock-mark with ground liver when he senses Neianth's approach. The bronze whirls and issues two clicks deep in his throat, sheer mental force meeting those ripples, solid and immovable; the roar is saved for when Neianth skims. There's no permission, not yet. Lythronath leaves footprints in the wet death, more texture than changes of colour. He goes up to the edge, and looks up. He fans those comet-blazed wings, and he roars once more. The ripples are deceptive in lightness and more true in what they reflect than what they are, as the weightiness behind them is a commanding thing to meet that mental force. Nearly a challenge in that. The variance of the reflection turns the blood-red pools into mirrors of reddened mountainous peaks, unquestionably vast yet far from serene. The roar dissolves to a snarling hiss as the brown re-circles in attempt at a second approach. Words collect from those images, « To see, not to touch. » As if that may further describe his intentions to land, which given his angle of approach this time, those white talons will touch that entrail-stained stone. Perhaps it's youth, or perhaps he's just that bold, but Neianth lands at very edge of the ledge, wings flared and snapped once, twice to maintain balance just in case he must disengage immediately thereafter. Lythronath cares little for this young interloper's motivations. Those talons touch his work; the bronze roars and hurls himself forward teeth snapping, not to meet hide - not for this - but to send the younger brown off once more. « Mine. » That is what matters. That is what the carcasses and blood and guts convey. Entrail-smeared muzzle is pointed up to watch the young brown - young, but not a baby since he could hunt, and therefore, not accorded the privilege of a free pass as once he and his siblings might have been. Neianth's lips curl to show all of those teeth even if not nearly comparable yet in size alone. Snarl turns to a returned roar, bellowed without restraint. Faceted eyes whirl reds as his talons clip the edge, agile beast turning swiftly to propel himself back into the air. Black wings snap to catch himself, turning his outward path into one that goes sharply upwards. If he was only slightly interested before, he is much more so now. Lythronath has all but created a significantly better challenge to rise to, goal to meet. Both physical and mental touches receed as if the weyrling brown is gone, but there's the sudden sound of claws on stone, the crack of leathery wings catching a landing made slightly too-fast by the approach as Neianth lands on someone else's ledge next to his. Whether it's owned or not seems to matter little to the motivated, intense dragon. « Yours. » Is confirmed, though from his selected perch next-ledge-over, he still postures, teeth shown, wings mantled. A'rist waits on guard, wings out and mantled, teeth shown in answer to Neianth's roar, though when lips curl black they'll prove marked with blood and flesh nearer the gums. Tail flicks out either way behind him, weight swaying, most of his balance on his hind legs, ready. Neianth's landing earns another show of teeth, and then several bobs of his head, and low series of clicks, deep in his throat. « Mine, » is reinforced, though there's altogether less force behind it. The bronze carries on swaying and swinging his tail a moment more. And then steps back. Only a little. The exposed space would be a tight fit indeed, and his angle keeps his not-yet-used carcasses clearly within the realm of Not To Be Touched territory. He breathes meat-breath out through his noise. Lythronath waits on guard, wings out and mantled, teeth shown in answer to Neianth's roar, though when lips curl black they'll prove marked with blood and flesh nearer the gums. Tail flicks out either way behind him, weight swaying, most of his balance on his hind legs, ready. Neianth's landing earns another show of teeth, and then several bobs of his head, and low series of clicks, deep in his throat. « Mine, » is reinforced, though there's altogether less force behind it. The bronze carries on swaying and swinging his tail a moment more. And then steps back. Only a little. The exposed space would be a tight fit indeed, and his angle keeps his not-yet-used carcasses clearly within the realm of Not To Be Touched territory. He breathes meat-breath out through his noise. Tail twitches once in irritation or thought or both. Neianth misses little, the volatile weyrling tilting his head to angle a still-quickly whirling red eye at the territorial bronze then slightly down to the semi-relinquished slim piece of ledge available to him. Dark, blood-stained legs collect beneath him and coil for a spring. He makes the leap, that being something of a glide inbetween to make the distance. Similarly dark wings are quick to collect but never fully- both in essence to make himself that much larger to attempt to compare to the bronze or in preparation for quick flight. The ripples come again, the reflection of before obscured by the degree of the aggrivation of the water- a choppy, irritated surface like that created by a wind storm. A hiss is his greeting, though about ten degrees less severe than what it had been when he was sent away before, followed by a echoing rumble deep within his throat, « You keep your kills. » There's a question somewhere in that observation. Lythronath most certainly doesn't look to make Neianth any more room, nor to allow him to have a personal bubble. The bronze stays right as is, his powerful jaws and sharp teeth impossibly close to that little brown, daring Neianth to try touch him, on his ledge. Just try it. That same meaty breath is pushed directly at the younger dragon, that strong tail swinging out behind him. There are a few more clicks, irritation and warning all rolled into one. « Mine. » But it's more expansive than those carcasses. It comes smelling of blood and guts and stone. The stark white talons of Neianth's back paws catch the edge of that ledge, the grating of stone loud as they just barely manage to find purchase. It's unfortunate that he's so short, because in his mind he's far bigger than Lythronath. Forced to look up at the bronze, he poises himself in a tense crouch, face and bared teeth not all so far from Lythronath's given their severe proximity. The little brown pushes limits, but is not so stupid to go so far as to come into contact with the bronze nor anything beyond the bloody remanants smeared into the stone he could not help but land on. It makes his balancing undoubtfully all the more precarious. « Why keep it. » He asks, again his commanding presence far larger than he ever would be in stature. The scar-like marks of his face give his rigid, aggressive expression that much more dramatic in appearance. Lythronath's face is simply scarred; there's even a fairly fresh scratch healing on his snout. It stares right back, and down. Every now and then, one of those exhalations comes a bit harder, as if he might simply choose to puff that little brown off his ledge at will. The tail keeps on swinging. « Not to keep. » It's almost laughing, but aggressively so, mocking also. A talon draws a trace in the smeared blood.
« Mine, » is exasperated, blood smell more acrid, word more solid, mentally forceful. That big head moves to focus Lythronath's gaze specifically on that little brown, as if checking, just to be sure, that he's not really a blue, underneath it all. It has the clicks resuming, that frustration, and still the bronze does not back off, not even a little. « I do not want it. » Neianth's words are echoed with a long, drawn out hiss. « Yours. » Is confirmed, his lengthy tan-ringed tail lashing once- though with no room to go hits the Weyr wall and stays there. There's the slightest shift in the shadowy brown, a single black-hewn paw moving to either balance himself or even to test the older dragon in the most subtle of attempts to edge around him. « Wanted to see. Yours is different than most others. » All others, that is. Lythronath answers that hiss with a low rumble. « Brown. » It's a special comment, just for Neianth. It comes with exasperation, bordering on derision. Without looking down, Lythronath shifts one of his feet, sharp talons scraping right through the slick red-brown coating and onto the stone, drawing noise up as he moves to counter that foot. « Mine, » confirms the next, laced with pride. « The feeding grounds too open. » Antoher comment meant as a question in the commanding, all-encompassing baritone of the brown weyrling. Neianth's invasion of Lythronath's space further is paused as he's so quickly countered, though his talons slowly flex, scraping along the stone's layer of blood. Reddened facets of slowed in their whiling, though comfort is surely the farthest thing from them. His head tilts, straying only partially from his guard to observe what prizes are so strewn on the older's ledge. « Even those that are no challenge, they are still to be prized? » Finally an inflection to that mindvoice, though even in it is the question of are any such a challenge as to be kept as trophies? « No prizes! » It's almost a command of its own, such a sharp correction. Lythronath's frustration goes farther than clicks and calls now. It manifests in a coiling of muscle, a hard swing of his head and shoulders, aimed directly at the smaller dragon, with nothing but sky to absorb the force of the blow. Neianth rears up on his hind legs when the bronze lashes, the effort forcing him to spread his expansive wings even if awkwardly to catch himself from sliding off the ledge backwards and yet avoid smacking a pinion on the bowl wall. Sharp backwinging ensues, a splattering of blood the result though it's not so off-putting for the predatory brown, in fact the hissing even becomes interrupted with a strangely timed chuffing sound. When he catches his loss of balance, he leans back on his haunches in an even more precarious position than before, if that could even be possible, his tail hanging down over the ledge, the backs of hocks flush with the edge. He lives a paw, now painted more than it'd been, to examine it « Not prizes. » He echoes, « Decoration? » The chuff from that brown, the examination of his foot, and, finally, the (slow) learning, it all earns stillness from Lythronath. Not predatory stillness; something more satisfied, if still not through with testing. « No. » That strong tail slows, balancing, only its tip flicking. Weight is off his front paws almost entirely, though they're allowed to touch the ground. He watches, from beneath those sharp 'ridges. « Mine. » Satisfaction and something akin to approval even begins to calm that churning reflection pool of Neianth's mind. The presence of reflection is still bloodied in hue, but the hints of mountains reappear with gore-soaked skies beyond them. « Protecting. » A beat, « Preference. » He doesn't clarify, but he seems to get it. The rumbling in his throat continues, lower in volume but on-going. Orange churns the reds of his eyes, identifying not so much the presence of outright aggression but the continued clear knowledge of the warnings he's been issued. « And when you go? » Neianth is unaware of their impending transfer, but he's aware of the intermittent yet frequent absence of the bronze. He's testing, the question containing a pressure to it. « Mine, » the bronze summarises. No other word seems capable of coalescing from the feel and idea of it. He leaves it at that. There is one, very measured, relatively small step back, opening up that little bit more space for Neianth, but still, not the whole ledge. « Always mine. » Warning, on the edge of it. Fierceness entirely unhidden. Those teeth show, just a bit, between his lips. « Not here to protect it. » Neianth's bared teeth are the response to that, the pool churning, choppy, distorted all over again. The brown is not stupid, so why he chooses to challenge the older bronze dragon is a curious thing. There's some amusement to him, the whirling picking up pace, the red more prominent. There's an increased tension, though, to the brown that indicates he knows the territory he's trespassing upon. Lythronath gives no more warning; this time, the lunge is real, and it will be to the weyrling to avoid those teeth, set to rake his hide, or bear the scars of it. The bronze takes up that space he'd relinquished, and then more, force of bulk, force of ownership, force of sheer, brute strength. « Always back! » comes with a loud roar that echoes off the walls of the bowl. Neianth expected it, pushed for it, and knew the consequences. His jaws snap as that lunge comes all too close, his roar not so loud as Lythronath's but responsive, sharp, feral in nature. With all this weight back on his hocks and one forepaw hooking stark white talons on the blood-stained ledge, he leaps from it to evade the bronze's assault. He turns too quickly for any larger dragon and dives into the sky from the ends of the bronze's teeth. When his shadow-touched wings catch the air beneath enough to keep him from skimming the bowl floor, he ascends back into the sky and away. « Yours. » The distortion of ripples come once more even as they too begin to receed, just the touch of those little waves- amused perhaps amidst their aggitation- as if at the very edge of the pool itself, vanishing in themselves as Neianth returns to being little more than part of the Weyr's collected consciousness. |
Comments
Edyis (20:27, 26 June 2015 (MDT)) said...
Hehehe. I loved this.
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